


The Nature of Inviting

by Saucery



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Escorts, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Barely Legal, Birthday Party, Bisexual Character, Bisexuality, Celebrations, Clothing Kink, Comedy of Errors, Coming of Age, Cross-Generation Relationship, Cultural References, DILFs, Deadpan, Dom/sub Undertones, Embedded Images, Escort Service, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fame, Flirting, Formalwear, Humor, M/M, Pop Culture, Sarcasm, Sarcastic Stiles, Sassy Peter Hale, Seduction, Sexual Tension, Size Difference, Size Kink, Snark, Teenage Rebellion, Tuxedos, Wealth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 19:50:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2594222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A rich, bratty Stiles accidentally buys the hooker from hell, who turns out to be a sociopathic, carnivorous bastard that becomes increasingly obsessed with making Stiles submit to <i>him</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nature of Inviting

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XqYfd36auhc) by IAMX. Oh, and the story is inspired by [this scene](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/post/91911622736/my-resume-is-slightly-out-of-date-you-could). What if Peter did have to sell himself? This is how I envision him doing it.
> 
> Please inform me if the GIF embedded herein is yours! I'd love to credit the GIF-maker; I just don't know who it is.

* * *

 

When Stiles makes the call, he assures himself it’s necessary. He definitely isn’t doing it because he’s lonely and dejected and pissed off at his dad for saying he won’t be able to make it for Stiles’s eighteenth birthday, like he’d promised he would. Then again, when has Dad ever been there for Stiles’s birthdays? Certainly not since Mom died. John Stilinski has been drowning himself in work and alcohol for ten goddamn years. Ain’t nothing new. So it’s his only son’s eighteenth birthday. Big whoop.

Stiles isn’t making the call because he’s acting out and doing something he shouldn’t just to get his dad’s attention. He isn’t. What he _is_ doing is taking emergency measures to ensure that he isn’t utterly humiliated at his own party.

Lydia turned him down. He doesn’t understand why she turned him down. Wait, no, he understands that—there’s no human being on earth who truly deserves her—but he’s a better catch than that douchebag Whittemore. Isn’t he?

Stiles, the son of the third-richest man in the entire country, can’t attend his own birthday bash without a date. And not just any date, but an _amazing_ date, a stunning date, who’ll make Stiles feel like less of an idiot when Lydia shows up as a guest, not his girlfriend. The gossip columnists will be there, as will the sharks commonly known as “friends,” in circles like theirs.

For appearances’ sake, Stiles has to prove that he isn’t an unwanted teen who can’t get a decent date despite being voted Most Likely To Marry A Supermodel by People Magazine. He has to turn up with someone fashionable, drop-dead gorgeous, witty and abreast with the latest developments in the stock market and in his father’s company.

He needs a professional. Sad as it is to admit this to himself, he can’t find an acceptable stand-in for Lydia—or Danny, who’s also taken, damn him—at such short notice. The party is tomorrow. If Stiles doesn’t take action, and soon, it’ll be a royal clusterfuck. Given that there will be British royals visiting.

So Stiles dials that number from that website he’s going to erase from his browsing history, post-haste.

He calls the most expensive escort service in North America, rumored (somewhat contradictorily) to be both incredibly protective of its clients’ confidentiality and to have been used by everyone up to and including the Vice President of the United States.

The phone’s picked up on the first ring by a woman with a voice like a bell. A very sexy bell. She’s incredibly polite, and he describes what he needs, clarifying that no, he’s not picky about the escort being male or female, as long as they’re _flawless_. Finally, he gives his credit card number, without a figure being mentioned, because it isn’t politic to mention pithy details, and because all the negotiators involved know that the cost will be astronomical, anyway. If you can pay for it, do you need to know how much it is?

Stiles hangs up with a feeling of mingled satisfaction and nervousness, because even though he’s resolved his dateless situation, he’s never hired a hooker, before. That’s what escorts are, aren’t they? Glorified hookers? Not that Stiles is planning to have sex with whoever the agency sends—he honestly just wants to survive his birthday by bringing along a posh date—but still. A hooker.

Oh, god. Dad’s going to kill him.

 

* * *

 

There are approximately thirty minutes to go, and the escort isn’t here. _The escort isn’t here_. Stiles is wigging out. His personal tailor has just strapped him into his bespoke suit, complete with waistcoat and cravat, but Stiles feels more like he’s been strapped into a malfunctioning parachute before being thrown off a plane.

Shit. He’s dead. Those rumors about the escort agency were useless—why did he listen to them? Maybe the website was an elaborate prank. Maybe the universe is out to get him. Maybe the space-time continuum is out to destroy his reputation, leaving him bleeding by the roadside of social convention.

“You look _perfect_ ,” gushes his image consultant, Mason. “That lovely salmon-pink cravat offsets your dove-gray waistcoat beautifully.”

“I have the same color scheme as a stale airline meal of day-old salmon served on a gray plastic tray,” Stiles complains.

“Nonsense. You look mature. Composed. Poised.”

“Yeah? I feel like I’m on the verge of a mental breakdown. A green shirt might’ve suited me better, because I’m going green around the gills.” Stiles smoothes his suit down with clammy palms. “Out, all of you.”

The small army that’s been tending to him files out of the dressing room; his hair stylist, Erica, winks at him encouragingly before departing.

Great. His help thinks he needs help. He’s helpless. He keeps fixating on the word “help,” possibly because he wants to scream it at the heavens. But when has god ever listened to him? Never, that’s what.

Whatever. Stiles is gonna be his rockin’ self. He’s too good for anyone; that’s why he’s single. He’s going to listen to P!nk’s “So What” on his iPod, on repeat, until it’s time for him to enter the hall. He’s fine. As in, not just okay, but _fine_. Mason said so. And Mason is many things, but blind to aesthetics, he is not.

Studying himself in the mirror, Stiles decides he’s on the classy side of twinky. His waist looks trim in that suit, and his pleated trousers cling to his ass. And hey, who knows? Maybe not having a date will be awesome, because he’ll be free to flirt and pick up dozens of swooning admirers. By the end of the night, Stiles will have the numbers of fifteen different celebrities, one of whom might even turn out to be the love of his life.

Yeah. That’s the spirit. Staying optimistic is paramount. You only attract nice experiences into your life if you’re positive. Positivity begets positivity. That’s what all the self-help gurus say.

And that, of course, is when the bell rings.

Stiles only hears it because he’s so pumped up on adrenaline that his hearing has reached supernatural levels of acuity. He leaps out of the room, bounds down the marble stairs, and arrives at the door a microsecond before the butler.

“Master Stiles,” says the aged Jeremy, in mild astonishment. “I do believe you may have broken the speed of light.”

“What can I say?” Stiles says, sheepishly. “I’m just a Road Runner waitin’ for my Wile-E-Coyote.”

Jeremy blinks at him uncomprehendingly. “Nevertheless, welcoming guests is my duty. You need not trouble yourself—”

But Stiles has already flung the door open.

There’s a man standing outside. Although “man” is a bit of an understatement, because the guy gives off this overpowering aura of masculinity that Stiles suspects you have to, like, be on steroids to get. He has features as classically handsome as Bernini’s David, with a fine, aquiline nose and cheekbones that’re as sharp as bladed weapons, but [his neck](http://40.media.tumblr.com/e1da39b2bb9b1152885b5bc3ed036e47/tumblr_naa6uusZRN1rnituko1_r3_500.jpg) is as broad as an ox’s, and he’s clad in a tux that somehow accentuates the downright _brutal_ width of [his arms](http://media.tumblr.com/b2105e4f260ecfac177b58bfd76ad17a/tumblr_inline_n9vh90Azx91qk3q4j.gif). Cripes, those biceps are outta this world. Forget escorting Stiles; he could probably bench-press Stiles. And half the guest list, on top of that.

Stiles only realizes he’s gawking when Jeremy coughs delicately.

Fuck, this escort’s obnoxiously attractive. It’s almost offensive, because while Stiles _had_ wanted his trophy date to outshine him, he hadn’t planned on being a tiny, invisible moon behind the hulk of a blazing star.

He’s making astrophysics comparisons. On the plus side, it indicates that his date is, in fact, going to outdo anyone else’s. On the minus side, Stiles can tell this guy is an asshole. He’s hot, but he’s an asshole. Maybe _because_ he’s hot; maybe he never had the opportunity to develop a sense of humility. That, and he’s old. Like, in his thirties.

“I thought they’d send me someone more… age-appropriate.” Stiles flaps his hands at the form-fitting tuxedo and the pinstriped, midnight-black bow tie. “But you’re all… James Bond, and stuff.”

“How very eloquent,” the jerk drawls.

“And you’ve got an attitude, too. Wonderful.”

“You asked for a date, not a lifeless mannequin.”

“A mannequin would’ve been better than a silver fox. My friends are going to think I’m a pervert.”

“You’re a teenager. It’s practically your job description to be a pervert.” The man raises an indignant eyebrow. (How can eyebrows even be indignant?) “And I don’t have a gray hair on me.”

He doesn’t. Damn him. “Get inside, then,” Stiles sighs, as Jeremy discreetly vanishes. “Escort me to my birthday ball. What’s your name?”

“Peter,” he says, looking Stiles up and down assessingly, and there’s a weirdly carnivorous gleam in his eyes when he’s done with his ridiculously blatant once-over.

“Are you supposed to check me out like that?”

“Aren’t I?” Peter quirks a hungry grin.

Stiles… doesn’t gulp. _It’s an act_ , he reminds himself. _The dude’s getting money to make me feel wanted. It’s a mirage, like an oasis in a desert, like chocolate sauce that doesn’t stay melty on an ice-cream sundae. Get your shit together._ “Follow me,” he grumbles, but before he can start walking, a rock-hard arm twines with his, like a proper date’s.

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles marvels, unconsciously testing the strength of that arm by pulling against it; it doesn’t give. “Are you made of granite?”

“I’m as vulnerable as any human,” Peter says, and Stiles snorts.

“Sure, if that human’s the Hulk.” He tugs on Peter’s arm, but Peter doesn’t budge. “What?” Stiles says, irritably.

“I would prefer to dictate the terms of our interactions,” Peter says, and Stiles goggles at him.

“Er, isn’t my preference what counts, here? Isn’t the customer always right?”

“You’re not my customer,” Peter says. “You’re a charming young man who I have every intention of dazzling.”

 _If you dazzle me any more, you might actually incinerate my corneas_. “Look,” Stiles says, matter-of-factly. “Be as dazzling as you want in front of other people, but when it’s just us? Drop the pretense.”

Peter goes very, very still. “Are you sure about that?” he says, lowly. “You might come to regret that decision.”

What the hell? “At least I’ll come, ha ha,” Stiles says, and at the expression on Peter’s face, he hurriedly clarifies: “I was joking.”

“I’d rather you weren’t.”

“You… You’re incorrigible.” Stiles lets Peter lead him, instead, because Peter’s obviously a control freak. Arguably, given Stiles’s attraction to Lydia, his type _is_ control freaks, but this is ludicrous. “Turn left,” he says, sourly, “and then right, and then right again. The hall’s beside the grand staircase.”

“I don’t need directions,” Peter says, managing to sound simultaneously steely and peaceable.

“Oh, yeah? What, do you have the blueprints to my house? Because that would be a serious breach of security.”

“I can hear the revelry and smell the finger-food.”

“Do you have super-senses, or what? And ‘revelry’? Did you just step out of a Regency romance?”

After a beat, Peter says: “Speaking of security…”

Yep, that’s Rafael McCall, asshole #2, tearing down the mahogany-paneled corridor toward them, earpiece buzzing with what is presumably the frantic gibbering of whoever’s on the security cameras, today. “Mr. Stilinski,” he says, harshly, “you didn’t clear your,” he gives Peter a dirty look, “guest with us.”

“I—”

“Surely he doesn’t need to explain himself to a… servant?” Peter says, pleasantly.

Stiles huffs. “Could you _be_ more Downton Abbey?”

McCall ignores him and scowls at Peter. “Yeah, I’m a servant, but I’m a servant in charge of Mr. Stilinski’s safety,” he sneers at Stiles, “and the safety of the dignitaries at this event.”

The temperature around Peter seems to plummet by several degrees. “I can guarantee,” he says, coolly, civilly, “that it is _your_ safety which will be at risk, should you continue to waylay us. He is my responsibility for the night.”

“He’s my responsibility regardless of the time. We’re not all stinking rich. Some of us have jobs, pal.”

“Indeed. So do I.”

There’s a brief pause. McCall’s eyes widen as he gets Peter’s hint, only to fill with an undisguised disgust that makes Stiles feel like a horrible, hooker-hiring deviant. “You’re trained in providing security, then?”

Peter casually flexes his massive shoulders. “What do you reckon?”

McCall considers Peter suspiciously. “How’d you even get past the main gate?”

“Perhaps you should ask the guards manning said gate.”

“Oh, I will.”

“You do that.”

There’s a charged silence. Eventually, Stiles mumbles apologetically about clearing future visitors with McCall, and the stick-in-the-mud leaves, taking his thundercloud of simmering tension with him.

“He’s very territorial, isn’t he?” Peter observes.

“Territorial? About me? Ew, no. He’s just a guard-dog that doesn’t want intruders pissing on his lawn.”

“I wasn’t aware you were into golden showers.”

“Double ew! What is _wrong_ with you?” They resume their journey toward the hall. “And this is a suggestion, but maybe you shouldn’t threaten your client’s security staff with violence?”

“I am a man of leisure, not violence.”

Stiles’s jaw hangs open. “Now that’s a lie. I bet you’re a serial baby-killer on the side.”

Peter tilts his head; his smile is reptilian. “What makes you say that?”

“You’ve got cruel eyes.”

“Cruel eyes,” Peter echoes.

“And a cruel mouth.”

“Hm. I’ve been told my mouth is very, very kind.” Said mouth—said unfairly mobile, damnably clever mouth—curls in a smirk. “If you ask nicely.”

“If I beg, you mean. Ah, crap. You’re totally the sort that gets off on people begging you.”

“Who isn’t?”

Point. “But there’s a difference between making your partners beg in a way they want to, and making them beg in a way that humiliates them.”

“Some people like being humiliated.”

“Not me.”

“Are you certain?” Peter reaches out to cup Stiles’s face. “I could’ve sworn…”

Stiles flushes and pulls away. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Putting the moves on me.”

“It’s what I’m paid to do.”

“Well, don’t. I’ll pay you even more to _stop_. God, this evening is such a disaster.”

“Disaster is the precursor to discovery.”

“Hold up, Confucius. We’re at the hall, so remember that you’re going to a) not make crazy death threats like you just did with McCall, b) behave yourself, and c) make ’em all wish they were me, because then, they would get to date you.”

“Shouldn’t I be making them wish they were me, so they could date you?”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Stiles mutters, “but let’s not aim for the impossible.” He nods at the footman standing by the hall’s giant, intricately carved, brass-knobbed doors. Despite their size, they swing inward noiselessly, and the footman bows. “In we go,” Stiles says, pulse thrumming with a peculiar mixture of anticipation and dread. “Try not to embarrass me.”

“But you’d look so fetching, all pink-faced and embarrassed.”

“Shut it,” Stiles grouses, and allows Peter to steer him in and toward the nearest cluster of tittering socialites.

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want updates and sneak previews? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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